The Curious Chandelier
by PANDAmonium99
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were walking back from a surprise birthday party thrown for John when Sherlock overhears some drama that's been happening in the Theatre Royal Drury Lane. A dead body has been found in the wardrobe department, and the detective is as ready as ever to find out who is responsible. [Johnlock slash, which might have M rating as it goes on.]
1. A Quick Stop on Kemble Street

Doctor John Watson had lost count of how many times he'd been in this particular seat, looking over yet another case on his personal blog. Once again, the veteran was busy staring intently at his laptop. He was quite proud of the name he'd made for himself and his partner online. He looked over their past "adventures" in his blog's archive. He felt so professional, and he was excited. Excited for the next one.

For a moment he paused, wondering for how long he'd remain a detective with Sherlock, but he pushed the thought aside. John had a habit of deluding himself that everything was always going to be okay, without preparing himself for any end to come. He'd learnt the hard way that that good things don't last. But he pushed the thought from his mind.

Instead, he looked back at his work. He had just finished the post entitled "The Hounds of Baskerville" when Sherlock walked in, wearing nothing but his underwear and a thin black dressing gown.

"Have you been up all night?" he yawned.

"No, I woke up early. I wanted to get this exactly right. I had to review it, make sure there aren't any slip ups or anything, and just to polish it. You know how long it takes for me to get things done."

"If you think you have a chance against me for the 'Perfectionist of the Year' award," he sighed, looking in the fridge for something that didn't resemble a human organ, "you must be deluded."

Sherlock made himself a cheese and lettuce sandwich, with the crusts cut off, of course, and sat in his armchair to enjoy his morning snack. John, on the other hand, decided to have a shower before making sure he looked presentable.

Fifteen minutes later, John was showered, dressed, and was drying his hair with a towel. He returned to the living room to find that Sherlock was also in daytime attire, wearing a tight, dark blue shirt and black slacks. He wore a thin, black belt with a silver buckle and his shoes were to die for. You could criticise Sherlock for many things, but his sense of fashion was not one of them.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked Sherlock once he noticed John staring at him in the doorway.

John, who hadn't even realised he was staring himself, was startled before his brain started working on an answer. "Y-yes, I had a few things to keep me going when I was writing the, uh, article."

"Lestrade has 'liked' it, by the way," Sherlock commented, returning his attention to his phone before pushing past John to make his way downstairs.

John followed briskly, used to having to keep up with Sherlock without warning. Sherlock didn't say anything about where they were going or what his motives were, and John had learned by now that Sherlock would tell him when he wanted to. Once they were outside, the sunlight hit Sherlock's cheekbone causing his face to glow. John, who was surprised that he'd found himself thinking such a thing, pushed his mind onto the matters at hand. Where were they going?

They stopped walking suddenly, and Sherlock jumped onto a bus that had stopped near where they were standing. John joined him and they both paid before finding some seats on the vehicle.

"I thought you didn't like buses," John whispered into his ear.

"I don't," Sherlock replied simply.

* * *

Two and a half miles away and twelve hours later, in the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, the cast of _Phantom of the Opera _were taking their last bows for the night. Daniel Christian was sitting in the wings, applauding along with the audience. He was an absolute Andrew Lloyd Webber geek, and this was by far his favourite show. His favourite cast, as well.

"And down goes the curtain," he smiled, taking his headphones off. His thirty-sixth performance had gone down without a hitch.

He sighed. Stage managing was never something that Daniel had _aspired _to do. It wasn't really something kids dreamed of doing, you know? "Stage Manager" has never, and will never, be on par with "Astronaut", "Princess" or "Actor". God knows he wanted nothing more to be an actor. The trouble was: he was terrible at it. Absolutely crap. His singing was no better, either. So here he was. Stuck managing a stage he'd never set foot on since the tech run.

The actors then began to file themselves into the wings. One actress, who was called Christine onstage as well as offstage, waved goodbye to Daniel. His heart skipped a beat. He had a bigger crush on Chrissy than anyone else that he'd ever met, and it was known to pretty much everyone in the theatre except Chrissy herself. The name "Christine Christian" didn't roll off the tongue anyway, his friends had joked.

He followed the actors up the stairs into the dressing room, but was startled when a shriek echoed down the stairway. Daniel would later learn that Chrissy had just gone to wardrobe with an inquiry about her costume, but instead, all that was there was a dead body.

* * *

"That was nice," laughed John as he walked with Sherlock through the dark streets of London. "Though a little disappointed, if I may say so."

"Disappointed?"

"There I was this morning, thinking there was another case, but instead I got a birthday party!"

"People are meant to enjoy birthday parties," said Sherlock with concern. "It was hardly a party, either, it was more of a day outing and a meal with friends afterwards," he sniffed, looking at the closed shop window to his right.

"Yeah, friends," he said under his breath.

"Did you say something?"

"No, it was nothing. Don't worry about it."

"I hate it when you say that. You say something and then you pretend you didn't, just because I didn't hear you the first time. Now it'll be on my mind all night."

John rolled his eyes. There was no point arguing with Sherlock. If there was one person with his logic in check, it was him.

Their conversation just so happened to die out the moment they walked by a pub on Kemble Street. If a passer-by had been passing-by, nothing would have seemed out of the ordinary at all. Then again, Sherlock Holmes wasn't any passer-by.

"…next to face the feat," said a woman with curly chestnut hair, who happened to be outside the pub with a cigarette and a couple of friends as the consulting detective walked past.

"A bit of a paragraph, isn't it?" pondered one of her friends aloud. He had short black hair, a beard, and was definitely in shape. "I mean, I couldn't consider wasting all _my_ lipstick writing _that _on the mirror."

"Well, you're not a cold-blooded killer, though, are you Kevin?" joked the first woman.

"Touché."

John was about to make his way onto Drury Lane when Sherlock stopped him. He turned, hoping Sherlock would tell him why he'd tapped him on the shoulder, but Sherlock was already halfway back to the pub before he could ask anything. For the second time that day, John struggled to keep up with the detective.

They entered _The Royal Tavern _quietly and quickly, stealing the first booth they came across. Sherlock said nothing for a few minutes, and John had learned not to try and break any silences. So he waited.

"That man outside, he's a dancer," he said after a while.

Instead of stating the obvious fact that Sherlock sounded like an idiot (which he did fairly often from time to time), John asked, "How can you tell?"

"He's tall and has long limbs, presumably from hours spent stretching. When he dropped his cigarette butt too soon, he bent over to pick it up without bending his knees, which means he's flexible. Another sign of a stretcher. He seems to be in excellent health, with the exception of his lungs, due to smoking, which means he spends a lot of time taking part in physical activities, and yet he has spent no time even peeking at the television, which probably means he has no interest in sports of any kind. My guess is that his physical activities tend to be dance and time spent in the gym, rather than sports games. And I overheard him talking about owning lipstick, so unless he has some hidden interest in being a drag artist, I think I've got a pretty good guess already. Also, his name is Kevin."

Even after knowing Sherlock as long as he had, it still blew him away that someone could take such an accurate educated guess about what someone did. Especially behind closed doors.

"And why is he important?"

"He's not, it's the woman he's talking to in which I have interest," he smiled. Even now, he still liked to impress John for no reason.

"But we can't hear them. They're outside."

"Taking in account of how fast she smoked, the woman had about seven minutes left of her cigarette. She won't stamp it out before it's done, she doesn't seem to have enough money to waste it on cigarettes. I also saw a West-End themed bag on that table there," he pointed to an Irish pub stand close to them, "which I'm guessing is hers. She won't leave without it, so she'll be coming back into the pub any minute now."

As if on cue, the chestnut-haired woman returned to the pub with Kevin and two other women. It just so happened that they continued their conversation right next to Sherlock and John's booth and the Irish pub stand.

"Well, it's not our problem now. The police will figure it out, don't worry," said one of the women. This one was blonde.

"It was just a bit shocking, you know? I think I'll have to be brought in for questioning tomorrow, as well."

"The sooner you tell them everything you know, the sooner they'll catch whoever did this to Janey!" the red-haired dancer consoled her.

"Come on, I have to go now. I need my beauty sleep, there's a matinee tomorrow," the chestnut-haired woman grabbed the West-End bag and went to leave. "Bye."

"Bye, Christine!" Kevin called after her.

Sherlock got up quickly and John followed. They were at Drury Lane again in next to no time.

"So that's it? We're just going home?"

"I, like Christine, need my beauty sleep, John. We'll figure this out in the morning, I'll make sure of it," he said, before stopping. "Christine Appleford is playing the female lead in _Phantom_, isn't she? I've needed an excuse to go the theatre."

* * *

_I'm still fairly new to this website and haven't spoken to a lot of people yet, but I hope that changes with this story. This will probably become an M rated Johnlock 50k+ story, but I've rated it K for now just because it's not M rated yet. Please tell me what you think, I find it hard to work otherwise._

_I might leave little author's notes on every story. I find them like a charming conversation between the writer and the readers, don't you think?_

_Oh, and here's the credit for the cover image (if it works, that is):_  
_ geek/wp-content/uploads/Sherlock+Benedict+Cumberbatch+Martin+Freeman+John+ _


	2. No Business Like Show Business

"RISE AND SHINE, JOHN!" declared Sherlock the next morning as he stripped John from his duvet not a minute past 6:58.

"Eeehnghffl," moaned John as he wriggled around on his bed sheets, noticing the cold before he woke up.

"Come _on_, we have a case!" shouted Sherlock again, annoyed at how slow John was being. He was dressed, groomed and ready to go, and here John was still in his underwear – he hadn't even got out of bed yet!

"Mmfgh," sounded John as he sat bolt upright at the words 'we have a case'. His eyes opened and noticed Sherlock looking him up and down in his white briefs. It was at that moment that John realised his, to put it lightly, 'morning wood'. "Sherlock, could you – uh - let me get dressed, please?"

"The sooner the better," Sherlock sniffed as he left the room.

John didn't know whether to take that comment personally, but again, he pushed his thoughts from his mind. Of course, Sherlock wanted to do everything at a hundred miles an hour. Of course he was mad that John was taking too long to get a move on. It wasn't the first time he'd been woken up like this, but it was the first in a long time, and he still hadn't quite got used to it.

Once he was dressed, John made his way downstairs and opened the door to the living room. "Are we going, then?"

"Aren't you eating?" inquired Sherlock, who hadn't eaten himself. He would eat when he was hungry, and he was never hungry and curious at the same time.

"There's a café next door. I'll grab something to go," he sighed. He'd never admit it, but he was as anxious as Sherlock was to get the wheel rolling on this case.

"At this hour? Don't be ridiculous. The workers never wake up before eight-o-seven," Sherlock brushed past him and was, once again, leading the way down the stairs.

"But it opens at half eight! And how would you know, anyway?" asked John over his shoulder as he opened the front door.

"Can't you tell from their eyes?"

John sighed. "I guess I'll eat when I eat."

* * *

"For the umpteenth time, Sherlock, you have two minutes. Two," said DI Lestrade down the phone, otherwise known as Greg, to the detective. "No more."

Sherlock laughed, ended the call and entered the stage door of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. There was a counter to his left, currently unoccupied since the Box Office was the only part of the theatre that was open so early in the morning. In front of him were the doors leading to the main dressing room and to his right were doors leading to the bar. The consulting detective took off immediately towards the doors to his front.

Behind the doors was a corridor, with two doors either side leading to a dressing room, each slightly smaller than the last. There was a staircase at the end of the corridor, down towards the stage and the orchestra pit and up towards the other dressing rooms and Wardrobe.

But Sherlock steered right, into Dressing Room Number Two.

"Shouldn't we be in Wardrobe? That _is _the scene of the crime, after all," John hissed. "They still need to remove the body."

Sherlock ignored John and started looking around immediately. John followed suit. The dressing room was quite spacious, with a walk-in wardrobe, a bed and a television. All along one wall were mirrors framed with light bulbs, with a counter with flowers, gifts and good luck cards piled on top of it.

"This is Christine's dressing room," Sherlock said plainly.

"Did you look up the layout of Dressing Room Number Two at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane or something? How could you possibly know?"

"No, it says on this card," Sherlock smiled, picking up a glittering gold good luck card. "I may be talented in my field, but I don't deduce when I don't need to."

"And why are we in here, again?" asked John.

"We're just checking to whether _Chrissy _here might have any motives. You know, see what her character is like."

"But the body is…"

"Upstairs, I know. We'll have a look here, and then we'll be done with the scene of the crime before the matinee starts with time to spare," Sherlock rambled, crouching down and picking up a pearl earring and pocketing it.

"Well…?" asked John. He was terrible at noticing things. His problem was always his lack of focus.

"I really don't see any reason why the girl would kill the costume designer. If anything, she relies on her most of all since she has all these grand clothes to wear."

"So we're ruling her out, then?"

"For now. A possibility is still a possibility."

John and Sherlock went up the stairs together. Thankfully, Wardrobe was only one floor up. Which makes sense, really.

Greg, Anderson and a couple of others were in the moderately small room already. A few costume racks lined the walls, with mirrors like the ones in Chrissy's dressing room lining the wall on the right. The message Sherlock remembered about was written on them. The costume designer was on the floor, on her side, and the window was wide open, with the fire escape right outside. It didn't take a genius to figure out the killer's escape route.

Sherlock turned to see the message, and mentally noted it down as he read,

_A theatre phantom for Phantom, how poetic it is so,  
To have real life echo the likes of Webber's show,  
Alas, my motives were not symbolic, can't I have something to gain?  
Money, power, fame, revenge or honey for Mr Brain.  
At the end of the day, I'll try my best to remain discreet,  
But a game's a game and it won't be long until someone's next to face the feet_

"It's misspelt," Anderson sighed.

"Sorry?" asked John, who hadn't bothered reading the paragraph.

"Feat. The killer spelled it F-E-E-T rather than F-E-A-T."

"Anderson, try not to interrupt. You might think you're helping, but you're really not. Remember 'rache'?" asked Sherlock.

"I'm sorry. I just thought 'Rachel' was a little too straightforward."

"Anderson, you are the _definition _of 'too straightforward'. Get out."

Anderson made some sort of noise of protest, but it was no use. He looked to Greg and John, but they were of no help. The whole thing reminded him of the killer cabby episode.

With Anderson gone, Sherlock felt his brain sharpen. He could think now. He crouched down, eyeing the woman and her belongings thoroughly. She had grey hair in a bob, and she looked to be in her fifties or sixties. She had a wedding ring, happily married. She polished the ring regularly, perhaps her husband was well known. He took her phone and looked at her glasses. They were clear, they were purely for looks. Obviously she cared about how she was presented.

Sherlock circled the woman. She had marks on her neck, a pattern dug into the skin. From a boot, maybe. He looked at the front of her short neck, no pattern, but a red line. She had bags under her eyes, presumably from long hours working. She had many cuts and bruises on her nimble fingers, presumably from sewing. On her chest was a necklace, inside were pictures of children. Not her own, grandchildren. They were far too young and the photograph was far too new for them to be her own children. They were a boy and a girl, the girl was five or so, the boy was a little younger. The girl was blonde; her hair in plaits and the boy was dirty blond, with his hair spiked up to all angles.

In the lady's pocket was a wallet. Sherlock opened it and examined its contents. Her passport was stuffed into the side, probably as a form of ID. This woman does not drive. Sherlock looked at her date of birth, 13th of June, 1950. Sixty-two years of age. Full name: Jane Mary Johnson. Eyes: blue.

Her grey jacket was covered with hairs: a pet owner. Probably a dog or a cat, judging by the length and the amount of hairs. Her grey pencil skirt went down to her shins and she wore black tights underneath.

"She was new to the job," he concluded, looking at John. Before he could answer, he explained, "She wears fake glasses, she cares about how she is presented and how others see her. She has bags under her eyes after overworking, confirmed by the sewing injuries on her finger. If she had been here for a while she wouldn't have been making as many mistakes, and she wouldn't have been doing overtime to impress everyone. She is also much older than a lot of the cast, and I'm guessing she is trying to be loving, caring and grandmotherly to them, shown by the picture of her grandchildren in her necklace and the dog hairs on her suit jacket. It's quite funny, isn't it?"

"Funny?" asked John in a staccato fashion.

"She is well dressed, she is clearly a lady. Her name is Jane, she wears grey and she was killed quite a few days after taking on her job."

"You're comparing a murder victim to _Lady Jane Grey?" _choked Lestrade.

"Well, yes. It's all there."

* * *

_Thanks for the reviews, they mean a lot. I'm always happy to receive pointers of where the story should go, corrections or comments about what people don't like. I'm always looking to improve._

_It took a little longer than I anticipated to write this, between New Year's Eve and the new Sherlock episode and me being generally lazy and unproductive, but I'm happy with how it turned out._

_This will turn out more Johnlocky, but the plot is the primary focus of the story, so the whole Johnlock stuff will turn up later but it'll be a sub-plot most likely._

_Oh, and even the series three has just started (yay!), this is still set before The Reichenbach Fall, so it's set in 2012 (which is why she's sixty-two and not sixty-three). If I'm wrong, tell me._

_'Til next time._


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